


tell me about despair, yours (and i will tell you mine)

by hotchners



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidnapping, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26843899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchners/pseuds/hotchners
Summary: The BAU's newest case took them just outside of the city. To a town of small, brick houses and pretty gardens and a serial killer with nine women under his belt. It was a peculiar case, with the levels of care the killer took with the bodies, the lack of struggle, the letters and, of course, you.A survivor.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Reader, Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 85





	tell me about despair, yours (and i will tell you mine)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic focuses a lot more on the case than the actual relationship so beware of that! mentions of kidnapping and very small references to torture/abuse, but not much detail. i have only seen the first three seasons so if it is similar to a case already covered in criminal minds, im sorry! :)  
> title comes from Mary Oliver's Wild Geese, which plays a big role in the fic.

Spencer was never a poetry buff.

Sure, he could recite them and had listened intensely as his mother spouted off Poe for Halloween and Shakespeare for Valentine’s Day. But he had never _understood_ them, never felt that shivering, ghostly feeling of a poem creep up his spine like so many readers claimed to have felt. He could recognize that blue meant sad and that red meant angry. But that is merely connecting dots, not truly, ardently _feeling_ a poem.

Poetry hardly came up in cases, so he never felt the need to really brush up on his knowledge or delve into why exactly they never made him feel overwhelmed with their meanings. They were simply words on a paper that he could interpret with the best of them, but never anything more. Garcia even had little print outs of poems scattered around her little cave’s walls, with floral outlines and looping, nearly indecipherable script. When he would ask if they held any special meaning, Garcia would brush it aside and tell him that she thought they were cute and dive back into whatever research she was tasked with.

Their newest case took them just outside of the city. To a town of small, brick houses and pretty gardens and a serial killer with nine women under his belt. It was a peculiar case, with the levels of care the killer took with the bodies, the lack of struggle, the letters and, of course, you.

A survivor.

You were the most interesting aspect of the case, Spencer decided as he thumbed through the files on the half hour drive up north. You had escaped from a tiny storage unit, bloody and battered and drugged up but otherwise very much alive and delivering more questions than answers.

The storage unit had done nothing to aid their investigation, the unit had been rented with cash and a fake name, in a facility with barren security and an indifferent staff that couldn’t pick Santa Claus out of a lineup if they tried. A dead end, basically. And still two missing women.

“Each woman has the same build, same hairstyle. Different jobs and family lives. The unsub is selecting his victims based on looks.” That was certainly true. Each picture looked just the same, each victim carefully selected. “They’re young, maybe a girl that rejected them?” Derek suggested.

“We need to find the final target. We know how these typically end. With a survivor, we can only assume he’ll be pushed to make even more irrational choices.” Hotch’s word was final, the car settling into a working silence as they continued to shuffle through files.

Their first stop was to the precinct, with a lineup of deputies and investigators wary of federal assistance, but with little much else to go on.

“This just isn’t the kind of town that attracts this kind of crime.” The sheriff scoffed as Spencer attempted to hide his indignation. _If he had a nickel for every time they had heard that_.

“The first thing we need is to see the survivor. Sheriff, if you could take Reid and Morgan to question her, Prentiss and I can visit the storage unit while the rest of the team starts on the profile.” Hotch’s orders came so naturally, no one dared question his certainty with the tasks given.

“Looks like I’m with you, pretty boy.” Spencer was glad to have Morgan’s assistance, he had never been known for his ability to be comforting in these situations, often spouting facts to fill the tense, empty atmosphere that came with a victim’s story. They scooped up a few files on the way out the door, glancing over pictures of crime scenes and perfectly printed letters scanned into evidence. They clamored into the front seats of the FBI regulated SUV.

“These letters left with the bodies are deeply personal. Chances are the unsub knew the victims or at least had followed them long enough to pick up on their interests.” Spencer noted, fingers tracing over the smooth surface of the photocopy paper. “He mentions favorite books, favorite foods, his favorite outfit he had seen them in. No mention of the kidnapping, torture, or murder.”

“Maybe he wrote the letter beforehand and leaving them with the bodies was his way of delivering them.” Morgan was focused on the winding road ahead, at the colonial and nearly identical houses they passed by.

“To avoid rejection.”

The rest of the ride was set in contemplative silence, Morgan drumming a beat of the song lowly playing on the crackling radio onto the steering wheel. Spencer continued to thumb through the files before finally landing on yours. The pictures were countless, every bruise and scrape had been carefully articled and photographed. Cheeks and fingernails swapped, not a trace of another’s DNA had been found. Just you, barefoot and stumbling into the police precinct and giving the front desk clerk the biggest fright of her life.

“She lives alone. Easy target.” Derek noted, stepping out of the car after parking on the other side of the street. “They’ve given her top protection.” He nodded to the undercover cruiser parked ahead of them, flashing his badge to him and the uniformed officer stationed at your door.

“Not alone.” Spencer pointed to your run-down car parked in your driveway, most specifically to the feline shaped decal pressed into your back window. “She has a cat.”

The sheriff met the two at the door, shoulders heavy with the conversation he was about to repeat. This was probably the sixth time he had sat in a round of questioning with you, different officers and agents taking down reports and asking the most personal, traumatic things their minds could conjure. He wished he could just pack it all in and let you continue with your life, free from ever having to relive the last few days again.

-

Your doorbell rang, but you had already heard the cars pull up. You had stood on your tiptoes, one eye peeking through the peephole in anticipation of whatever round of questioning you would be subjected to again. You braced yourself with a breath, slowly creeping the door open to reveal three figures on your stoop. Badges were immediately flashed.

“Morning, Miss Y/L/N. I’ve got Agent Derek Morgan and Dr. Spencer Reid from the FBI here to ask you a few questions.” The now all-too familiar lilt of the Sheriff’s voice immediately filled your ears. You offered the agents the tiniest of smiles as greeting. “Can we come in?”

You opened the door wider, foot immediately shooting out to stop your cat’s daredevil attempt at an escape.

“Goose, no!” You spoke for the first time, arms scooping up your troublemaking cat and moving to deposit him into the next room “Come on in, agents.”

Spencer’s eyebrows raised at the sight of the cat. Derek rolled his eyes. Pretty boy – one, Derek – zero.

“Goose? Like Captain Marvel.” Spencer supplied.

“Yeah, and the fact that he’s kind of an asshole. Always stealing and swiping and biting. More like a house-trained goose than a cat.” You led them into your tiny kitchen, cluttered with pictures and mismatched dishes and a smattering of tourist-y magnets lining your fridge. “Sorry, can I get you something to drink?”

They shook off your offer, eyes peering over the finer details of your house. They took in every novel on your bookcase, every dirty dish in the sink, as if it was the most important detail in the entire case. Spencer offered you a small smile as comfort, glancing over your disheveled cardigan and loose-fitting pants. Your eyes were dark with little sleep, your hair a mess on the top of your head.

“We can sit in the living room, if you like.” You offered, avoiding their analytical gazes to scoot by them, taking a seat at the very edge of your living room sofa. They wordlessly followed, each settling into the spare mismatched armchairs. The Sheriff stayed standing in your doorway, hat held in his hands as he turned his back.

“We’re going to ask you some questions, Y/N. You may have already answered them before, you may not have. I know this is a difficult thing to talk about again, but even the smallest of details can help us. Nothing is unimportant.” Derek said, hands free. In every interview, there had always been fidgeting hands scribbling down every word you spoke. Never eye contact, never truly listening.

“Okay, I’ll do my best.”

“Great, let’s start with the last thing you remember on the night you went missing. Where were you?”

“In my driveway. It was about…nine at night. I had just gotten back from the grocery store.”

“Why’d you go to the store so late?” Spencer asked, not accusatory, not sympathetic. Simply curious.

“I had a craving for ice cream.” You scoffed a laugh, thinking that something as trivial as ice cream had been the reason you were inches from being murdered. “Chocolate brownie.”

“What do you remember from there?”

“I remember closing the car door. I opened the trunk, I grabbed the bag and everything went black.”

The interview continued how the rest had. No, you hadn’t seen what they looked like. No, you don’t remember where they had taken you. No, they hadn’t seemed at all familiar. As the questions continued, your feeling of being at all helpful disappeared. You had a feeling Derek realized this too, as he excused himself and the Sheriff to survey the area you had been taken. Your driveway is forever tainted to you, the dark stain of chocolate ice cream still painted the pavement from where you had dropped your grocery bag. Ants had accumulated in the twelve hours between your disappearance and your neighbors noticing.

“How did you escape?” Spencer asked.

“I don’t know. I woke up in the dark, but I could feel that he was there. Watching me. I started talking to him and he started freaking out, he was cursing and angry and he stormed out. I guess he wasn’t paying attention because I could see that he left the door open. I broke through my ties and ran away.”

Spencer seemed lost in thought for a moment, simply squinting at you as the gears turned and grinded in his head.

“When he was angry, did he hit you?” The only evidence of marks on you were hand shaped bruises probably from the initial kidnapping, the rest were scrapes and marks from the rough concrete floor of the storage unit.

“No, just hitting the wall mostly.”

“What did you say that made him so angry?”

You paused, eyes and lips hesitant to form the next few words.

“I told him that he’s a coward. Kidnapping women while their backs are turned is something cowards do.”

Before Spencer could ask his next question, the door burst open, Derek and three officers filed in as you both shot out of your seats. Spencer’s hand instinctively reached for the gun on his belt.

“Are you guys okay; did you see anything?” Derek demanded, hand coming up to halt Spencer’s movement.

“Yeah, what’s going on?”

“He’s been here. Probably in the last ten minutes.” Derek revealed his other hand, the familiar stationery that was left with each of the bodies. You chanced a glance at the top of the letter, your names written in careful script.

You collapsed back into the couch.

-

You hadn’t passed out, but your vision was tunneled, there was a distinct hum in your ears. Spencer rushed to provide a glass of water that you batted away, Goose nudging your leg in concern.

“Here? As in…here, here?” Your vocabulary had apparently also taken a bit of a hit.

“This was put under our car’s wipers. Definitely not there when we rolled up.” Derek handed the letter over to Spencer, who barely spared it a glance and already had it memorized. It was certainly from the unsub, the word choice and handwriting too similar for it to not be.

“What does it say?” You muster up the strength to ask, all eyes shooting to you hesitantly. “I want to know, it’s addressed to me, isn’t it?”

Wordlessly, Spencer pushed the paper to you, the lilac stationery on of your favorite colors. You always found the color romantic and far too under appreciated. You shivered at the thought of him picking it out knowing that. You forced down the bile building in your throat as you read over the letter. To any outsider, it read as a love letter. Dedicated to you and you alone, something star crossed lovers sent and read under low lamp light. Something to be clutched to your chest in excited glee.

You pushed it back into Spencer’s hands at the sight of the farewell.

 _Always Yours_.

“How does he know all those things about me?” You knew you would hate whatever answer they gave.

“Chances are, he’s been watching you for a while.” Derek’s voice was soft, a sharp contrast to the reality of the situation.

“It’s interesting…” Spencer mumbled, glancing over the letter once again to confirm his suspicions.

“You got something?”

“This letter. Look at the edges. It’s soft and worn. All the other letters were crisp and new. It’s been folded over and over. This isn’t a letter he’s written recently.” He dangled the letter between his fingers to demonstrate its delicacy.

“Meaning?”

“Y/N, you said you called him a coward and he got angry. Usually, an unsub of this nature takes it out on the victim, but he didn’t touch you. You verbally rejected him and he snapped. He had you for almost an entire day and none of the torture found on the other women is evident on you.” He licked his lips, as if prepping them for the bombshell he was about to drop on you. “I don’t think you’re like the other women. I think he wanted _you_ this whole time.”

-

The FBI decided to take over your protection detail with the information Spencer had uncovered. With you as a primary target and a killer out there willing to do whatever he could to have you again, it seemed the only logical next step. Another was taking a deep dive into your personal life.

“Good luck, I’m not that interesting.” You promised Spencer when he warned you about this, about the personal questions to come about your childhood and every intimate detail of your life.

Together, you combed over your origins until the moon hung high in the sky. Spencer determined, by all accounts, you were a recluse. You didn’t have any family nearby, not many close relationships beyond polite greetings to neighbors and smiles to your coworkers. You had your cat, your collection of books, and a slightly messy house. When asked about your family, you simply stated that they weren’t around anymore and left it at that.

Spencer volunteered for the overnight shift.

Garcia called at around midnight, an hour after you had retired to your bedroom down the hall.

“This wasn’t easy, sweetie. Your girl is practically a ghost. No police record, pays her taxes on time, donates to charity and everything.”

“Anything from her childhood? Maybe family connections or something that happened in her neighborhood? Guys like these start young, probably got expelled or had a run in with cops.” Spencer stood in front of your vast collection of books, finger sliding over smooth spines as he tried to recall titles.

“Nothing like that. There is an interesting document filed on her sixteenth birthday.”

“What kind of document?”

“Petition for emancipation. She was awarded emancipation from her parents and moved states within a month.”

“Send that to the team. Thanks, Garcia.” He finally settled on one he didn’t recognize, the hardcover copy of Mary Oliver’s _Devotions_ sat heavy in his hand.

“I didn’t think you’d be much into poetry, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer nearly let the book slip from his fingers but was able to fumble it back into his grip. He turned to see you leaning against the doorway, chunky cardigan discarded in favor of a light, short sleeve sleep set. Your bare feet padded across the hard wood floor, hand moving to reach for his selection. “Mary Oliver, my favorite.”

Up close, in the dim light of your living room, Spencer felt transported. He was a shy thirteen-year-old boy again, noticing girls for the first time over his books and hoping the prettiest girl in class would spare him a glance.

“S-Spencer.” He offered. “You can call me Spencer, not Dr. Reid.”

“Okay. Spencer, then.” You share a beat of comfortable silence, no movement except for a car passing by on the dark street through the window. “I took you as more of a classics guy. Proust and Chekov.”

“I am, I thought I would try something new.” You hummed, turning over to the couch and falling into the scattered decorative pillows. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I was tossing and turning thinking about how much more interesting it would be to talk to you instead.” You flipped to one of your favorites, so much so that you had had the page memorized for years. “And, you know, the whole serial killer thing.”

“Right.” Spencer took his new favorite seat, in the dark green armchair which seemed, for the most part, unused. “My mom read her when I was a kid, but I never got into it. She used to say she was too happy for poetry.”

“Not happy, just…in tune with nature.” You distracted yourself with rereading the passage as Spencer took you in in this new atmosphere.

You were almost comfortable, finally at peace in the quiet of your empty house and closed blinds. He had been curious as to why you were so withdrawn from those around you, never bothered to make friends or even acquaintances if the interviews with neighbors and coworkers were anything to go on. Your hand moved to adjust the dainty necklace on your collarbone when he saw them.

Splotches of small white rings along your hand, creeping down your arm. Paler than your true skin tone, it was impossible not to see the scars that dotted your skin, plentiful like freckles. He had also wondered why, in the balmy Virginia heat, you had clutched your cardigan so closely to your frame. He had seen these marks many times, typically in children. They were faded with time, but unmistakable. Cigarette burns.

He remembered what Garcia had found on your emancipation. His eyes drifted to the lack of family pictures and stories littering your walls. Spencer felt foolish that he hadn’t recognized it before.

You glanced up to meet his eyes and knew that he knew. Your eyes drifted to the scattering of tiny, pin needle scars on the inside of his elbow, barely uncovered from his pushed-up sleeves. You knew too.

Neither of you moved to cover yourselves, you had been hiding for so long now. Even if you could only show your true skin to a near stranger for one night, it was an opportunity you were both eager to accept.

You wore it differently, Spencer noted, then he did. With him, it was snippy comments and brick walls of indignation. Yours were locked doors and soft poetry. Beautiful and safe on the outside, but Spencer was beginning to see the complexities of the haikus and rhyming meter. A shiver ran up his spine.

“Which one is your favorite?” He asked, not knowing what else there was to say. You offered a smile in return, mouth forming the familiar words. Your eyes scanned the page, but they didn’t need to, you had memorized the words so long ago.

“You do not have to be good.”

“Wild Geese. One of her most popular.”

“And most true.” You added. “Though it goes against everything human beings are trained to believe.”

“You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.” Spencer continued for you, voice low and smooth, as though the police cars making their rounds may hear you.

This was a secret, you realized, that had to be whispered between two strangers on the other side of midnight. You recited the next line without looking down at the text, earning a surprised and impressed smile from the genius sitting across from you.

“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” He added.

“You first, doctor.” You shut the book in your lap. It was a joke, he immediately realized, and ducked his head under your watchful eye. He knew any slightest gleam in his, the tiniest upturn of the corner of his mouth, and you would know more about him than those who spent years hammering away at every wall he had built brick by brick. It was a vision only those who had seen similar things could possess. Whatever the opposite of rose-colored glasses is.

“I think I figured out how you got away.”

“I told you how I got away.”

“No, I know you did. I mean why he was angry. It wasn’t just because you called him names and he couldn’t handle it. It was that you didn’t show any fear. You didn’t give him what he wanted; you were fearless.”

“I was scared shitless.” You admitted, hands shaking as Spencer leaned forward in the armchair to further examine you.

“Even more reason for him to fail. Scared shitless, you called him a coward. Every vision of your rejection he had built up in his head was coming true and he couldn’t take it.”

You talked for nearly an hour longer, lounging on your sofa as Spencer gave an impromptu lesson on the next thing that caught his eye. Somewhere between the studies on feline comfort during traumatic incidents and the latest episode of Doctor Who, you finally let sleep overcome you for the first time in three days.

Spencer sat hunched in the armchair for the rest of the night, pouring over files he had already committed to memory but was convinced he hadn’t seen everything that had to offer. He spared you a glance every now and then, tucked awkwardly into the armrest of the couch as you slept still throughout the night. He had only realized how long he had been sitting in the same position when the sun began to peek through your dark curtains.

Derek called to tell him they had found the body of one of the missing women. There was only one more they could save.

-

The pictures Hotch sent from the scene were sloppy. It almost felt like a completely different unsub with the lack of care that had been taken. So little, in fact, that forensics was able to pull a match of DNA beneath the victim’s fingernails.

“The only answer can be rage. If what Y/N has told you is true, it could have been an additional stressor which made him feel even more irrational. We’re headed to his apartment now and having Garcia’s dug up some things that you might want to discuss with Y/N.” Hotch’s voice through the phone was notably tense as they said minimal goodbyes.

“Another body?” You asked, stepping into the kitchen which he had disappeared into to take the call.

“Yeah. And the unsub. Darin Woodard, you went to college together.” You squinted at the familiarity of the name but ultimately came up blank. “He’s a professor there now, actually. Teaches American Poetry.”

For the second time in twelve hours, the wind had been knocked out of you.

“You recognize the name?”

“American Poetry. I think I took it freshman year, we were assigned partners and had to analyze a poem-”

“And Darin Woodard was your partner.” Spencer’s hand immediately fumbled for his phone again, dialing Derek’s number with the press of a button. You rushed back to the living room, browsing over your vast collection of novels and books. A bent-up copy of the same collection of Mary Oliver’s work was slotted into one of the bottom shelves. Old and forgotten, paperback and used because it was the only copy you could afford at the time.

Flipping to your favorite, the one you had shared with Spencer the night before. The one you had turned to in desperate times for comfort, but now…

Annotated on the sides of Wild Geese, there was all the evidence you needed. Your chicken scratch handwriting in black ink. Darin’s familiar loopy cursive in blue.

Spencer stuck his head in the room from the kitchen, Derek’s voice ringing over the speakers of his phone.

“Garcia found some information that confirms this is our guy. After that class, he changed his major to Poetry with a concentration in American Poetry, he changed dorms to be in the same building as Y/N, basically every decision he made for the next ten plus years were to impress her.”

“The power of a pretty girl being nice to you. Stays with you forever. Makes you feel invincible, even irrational.” Spencer answered back. “I think it’s too risky to get Y/N there, but I might have another idea.”

Spencer coached you as the rest of the team drove the ten minutes ( _ten minutes!)_ to Darin’s apartment. He had a way of making everything make sense, the realism in Spencer’s voice grounded you for those ten minutes, his hand on your shaking arm, a group of police officers huddled in the corner watching your every move.

The fate of this last women was in your ability to talk Darin off of the ledge.

“You’re going to have to make promises to him. That if he lets her go, you can be together. Plan ahead, say you can run away to a location that means a lot to both of you. The most important thing you’re going to have to do is apologize. Say you’re sorry for calling him a coward and that you didn’t mean to run away.”

The thought of apologizing to a murderer made your head spin.

It was a few minutes before you got the call and Spencer watched ardently as you did just as he told you to. Your voice was level, calm and steady. To any outsider listening in, they wouldn’t know that the person you were speaking to on the other end had a handgun jammed into the ribs of a woman who was a vision of you.

Finally, after what felt like hours instead of the few minutes you shared with Darin’s voice ringing in your ears, he surrendered the woman with the delusion of running away together to Massachusetts, where Mary Oliver drew her inspiration.

“Hey-” Spencer offered when the line went dead. “You did it. You saved her life.”

Despite that, you knew you still wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night.

-

Spencer was never a poetry buff.

Derek was picking him up from your house to start the half hour ride south back to D.C.. You lingered together on the front porch, sun shining on your skin for the first time in days.

Sure, he could recite them and had listened intensely as his mother spouted off Poe for Halloween and Shakespeare for Valentine’s Day. But he had never _understood_ them, never felt that shivering, ghostly feeling of a poem creep up his spine like so many readers claimed to have felt. He could recognize that blue meant sad and that red meant angry. But that is merely connecting dots, not truly, ardently _feeling_ a poem.

And yet…he watched as you shuffled in your matching pajama set, the sound of your slippers scuffing against the concrete of your doorstep. He felt like maybe he could string together carefully selected meter to describe this tingling he felt. He could comb the dictionary for words that conveyed the strain of his cheeks as he laughed at the science-y joke you had read on a popsicle stick one time that reminded you of him.

A honk sounded from across the street and there stood Morgan, leaning against the passenger doorway, arm disappearing through the rolled down window to catch your attention with the horn. You both flushed at the idea that he had been standing there watching for who knows how long. Both of you too lost in the other to notice the car pull up.

“I guess this is goodbye, then.” You waved at the grinning agent by the car, proudly looking over at his best friend doing his best to look unterrified at the pretty girl in front of him.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Spencer fiddled with the strap of his bag. “Would it…. would it be okay if I checked in on you? Called you every now and then to see how you’re doing?”

“Is that protocol, Dr. Reid?”

“No. Just…something I want to do.”

“Yeah, I would like that.”

Spencer skipped across the street with a newfound pep in his step. He hid the thumbs up he threw Morgan’s way from you, never one to want to seem too eager. It would be fifteen minutes before he realized he had forgotten to ask for your number. It would be another ten before he found the book you had stashed in his bag when he wasn’t looking.

Mary Oliver, the one you had shared together the night before, your ten-digit number scrawled into the margins of Wild Geese, a poem Spencer was starting to have an affinity for.

Spencer was never a poetry buff. But he was starting to understand it more.


End file.
